


The 30th Anniversary One Shot Collection

by Snowfilly1



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 30th anniversary celebration, AU, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Created the Stars (Good Omens), Crowley Has Issues (Good Omens), Crowley Has Self-Esteem Issues (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Humanity (Good Omens), Declarations Of Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Inspired by Fanfiction, Jabberwocky - Freeform, M/M, Moving In Together, One Shot Collection, Post-Scene: The Ritz (Good Omens), Snake Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Star Wars - Freeform, The Arrangement (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:06:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 12,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23952778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowfilly1/pseuds/Snowfilly1
Summary: 1 In the beginning Crowley wakes up in Aziraphale's bookshop after the Ritz.2 Contrast Moving day, from Crowley's flat to the cottage3 Unexpected "Is that someone coming? Crowley raises his head, falls back on the stone. Of course it isn't."4 Force 'Crowley, no. That's what, nine films? Entirely too long.' Happy Star Wars Day!5 Miscommunication Aziraphale doesn't mean it like that. No-one has ever been glad to see a demon.6 AU 'You ever wondered what we'd be like, what we'd do if we were human?' A love letter to some of my favourite AUs.9 Scars Crowley expects leaving Hell to hurt. Some post canon vignettes.10 Poetry Crowley really doesn't want to listen to the Jabberwocky11 Doubt Crowley wants to make sure Aziraphale is comfortable agreeing to the Arrangement12 Memory 'I remember you from before,' Crowley blurts out. They met before the Fall13 Garden 'What do you want?' No-one's ever asked Crowley that before.14 Food Crowley can cook. It's something he's picked up over the centuries.15 Dreams. 'What were you dreaming about, dearest?'
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 114
Kudos: 221
Collections: Good Omens Celebration





	1. In the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> No promises this time as to how many I'll do (the 31 is probably wishful thinking), but I hope you'll enjoy them. 
> 
> This chapter is just fluff and romance. They love each other so much.

Crowley wakes up, and that's a massive improvement over what he'd been expecting. Wakes up, and stares blankly at the walls of books and tartan quilt that he's been covered with, and it takes him entirely too long to realise that he's in Aziraphale's bed.

Which he doesn't remember the angel even having, but apparently he does, and apparently he'd decided to put Crowley in it...yesterday?

He stretches, bracing against the expected ache in his knees. Realises his eyes don't hurt from the smoke. In fact, nothing hurts. He rolls onto his side, gestures at the curtains until they open - he can sense their reluctance. Aziraphale had been adamant on the 'no disturbances' thing; he can feel it in everything in the room.

Rain outside, and a garland of bare branches framing the lowest window pane. And it's cold, cold; he can sense it reaching in.

'Aziraphale?' His voice is horse; he clears his throat and tries again. 'Aziraphale?'

The angel bustles upstairs, starts calling when he's nearby, and Crowley's heart, which he doesn't need, leaps anyway.

'Crowley? Crowley, are you ok?'

A knock on the bedroom door shouldn't feel like such a gift; it's stupid and pointless, because of course Aziraphale doesn't need permission to come in. Doesn't need Crowley's permission to do anything, which is probably why he's asking.

'Come in, angel.'

Aziraphale's in the room, walking towards him before he realises that he's sitting in bed and not wearing the same clothes he went to sleep in. It ought to be embarrassing or something, he's sure, but it's just...comforting?

Aziraphale smiles at him. A real genuine smile, no holding back and Crowley smiles in return. 'You're alive, angel,' he says softly, as though he hadn't had hours of nightmares to the contrary.

'I am, and you're awake.' He comes a bit closer, glances to the chair that Crowley hadn't noticed alongside the bed. It's cluttered with pillows and books, and...has Aziraphale been sitting there watching him sleep?

'Stop making the place untidy. Sit down.'

He wants to say something, ask one of the hundred questions that are starting to form (why did you let me stay here? Did we really, really win? Did you really sit and keep watch over me?) but Aziraphale is too distracting.

However long he's been asleep, while the world's shifted towards winter, it's shifted Aziraphale with it. The coat's gone, which isn't altogether surprising indoors, but so is the bowtie and he's wearing a pale blue sweater. It's...well, beautiful isn't a demonic word and neither is gorgeous but they're all he can think of.

Aziraphale looks _happy._

'Are you alright, Crowley?'

'Yeah,' and he's startled to find it's the truth. He feels alright. He breathes in and out, pointless, but free of the dragging weight that's been there ever since he was handed a wicker basket in a graveyard. 'Yeah, angel, I'm fine,' and he's smiling, it's stupid, and he can't help himself. 'We won.'

'We won,' Aziraphale repeats and settles himself a bit more comfortably on the armchair. 'You've been asleep for three months, by the way. I think the fireworks last night might have disturbed you.'

'Bugger.' Crowley likes Bonfire Night, the gunpowder heat and star birth flashes of colour of it all. 'So, November? No hassle from anyone?'

He thinks, for a moment, that Aziraphale is going to lie to him, and then the angel blinks and says 'You did have a visitor a while back. Hastur. He went to your flat. I set some wards up the first time I went back to check on your plants and he set them off. He's dealt with.'

Crowley is shocked enough to blink himself. 'You went to check on my plants?'

'Well, obviously, dear. You take such good care of them, I didn't think you'd like it if they wilted. I read some books first, just to make sure I was doing the right thing. And I warded your flat and Bentley, I knew you had but I wasn't sure you'd sense it if you were asleep.'

'You didn't need to,' he protests. 'Not all that effort.'

'I clearly did, because Hastur showed up. And it was no effort to protect the things you care about, Crowley, honestly. How could it be?'

Those are not tears he can feel threatening, not tears in response to this careless kindness. Not tears of relief that it's over, really over, and Hastur was dealt with - he knows Aziraphale won't tell him the details. Demons don't cry.

Aziraphale very pointedly looks at the wall for a moment; Crowley scrubs a hand over his face. 'Thanks.'

'Our side, remember?' and his voice is so soft, so kind. Crowley loves him, fiercely.

'I do.' Words with a human weight behind them. Aziraphale gets that, of course he does. Damn angel and his words.

'No-one is ever going to bother us again. Ever. You're safe.'

'So are you.'

He can't find any words after that for a while. Aziraphale is still smiling at him. Nothing hurts. Nothing's wrong. He can lay here and exist and be comfortable and no-one is going to take it away. He doesn't even have to move if he doesn't want to, unless...

'Angel, can I take you out for dinner later?' He wonders, abruptly, where he found the courage to ask. 'As a date?'

Aziraphale looks at him as though he's mangled the words. 'You...Crowley, you don't have to.'

The courage stays longer than he'd expected it could. 'I want to. Let me?'

A hand reaches out, lands dangerously near his on the sheets. 'You don't need to woo me, I mean.'

'Woo? Aziraphale, no-one says 'woo' anymore. Well, owls maybe.'

'What would you prefer I call it? Courting? Chatting up? Crowley, I know what you're trying to do, and the answer is yes, and you don't need to take me out to dinner.'

He needs to hear it. To have it confirmed, after all these centuries they've spent at cross purposes. 'Are you saying you want to...be with me?'

The hand wraps around his. Fingers lace between his and squeeze without hurting. 'Yes. Whatever you want this to be, I want that. To be with you. I wanted to say at the Ritz but you were tired and I was still...and I've had months to think about this while you've been asleep so I understand if I'm going too fast now, but...'

Crowley wonders if this is what the rest of the world feels when he stops time. The complete cessation of everything that matters.

'I love you. I did tell you a few times, but you were asleep and I don't think that counts.' Aziraphale looks so at ease with that statement. 

Crowley feels his stars ought to have shuddered in their course, at least. He's loved Aziraphale since a rainstorm in Eden; had admitted it to himself as soon as he'd learnt a word for the feeling. He'd hoped, he'd wanted; he'd dreamt...

And after everything should have ended, here was Aziraphale offering him everything. He closes his eyes; listens to the slow drag of traffic jams outside and the spark of Aziraphale's pulse, running through their joined hands.

'Love you too, angel.'

'Can I...?'

'Sure.' It's the same blanket permission he gave earlier; he doesn't care what Aziraphale's about to do, because it's going to be safe. It's going to be good, and how long, how many centuries, will it take to get used to that feeling?

He opens his eyes just as Aziraphale sits next to him on the bed, wraps an arm round his shoulder and pulls him close. Very close. 'I haven't...actually kissed anyone before.'

Crowley shrugs, which has the delightful effect of bringing more his body into contact with Aziraphale. 'Nor have I. Dare say we can figure it out as we go.'

As it turns out, height difference and angles and the fact that they're both grinning make it a lot less romantic than it could be, but by then, they're wrapped in each other's arms and it doesn't matter anyway.

'What do we do now?' Crowley asks, once he finally pulls away from kissing a line up Aziraphale's cheek.

'Whatever we like,' Aziraphale replies. He's stroking Crowley's hair, twisting it through his fingers. 'Anything. Everything. '

And their world feels like Eden again; new and just begun, born new in winter sunlight, made for them together.


	2. Contrast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley shrugged and glanced around the flat once more. 'Honestly, angel, there's nothing here that I want. It's just stuff. Nothing important.'
> 
> Packing up the flat to move to the cottage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter with absolutely no warnings!

They emptied the flat in a morning's work; plants stacked in the Bentley in ways that would upset physics if it became aware of them. A bookcase and Crowley's books. A few items from the kitchen, a few clothes, a few things that he'd kept in a locked box in his room and moved from country to country across too many years to count.

'Are you sure this is everything you want to take, dearest? I...It just doesn't seem right that you're getting rid of everything. I don't want you to feel like you can't take your things or anything.'

Crowley shrugged and glanced around the flat once more. 'Honestly, angel, there's nothing here that I want. It's just stuff. Nothing important.'

Aziraphale touched his wrist, softly, but a rare enough gesture that Crowley jerked in surprise. Looked up at the angel, who had come to stand in front of him. 'I feel bad enough that we're selling your flat and keeping the shop, Crowley. Are you sure about leaving all this?'

'Yes.' The answer came without hesitation; he'd been sure about this ever since he'd seen the picture of the cottage online. 'I don't love things like you do. I'd rather we got new things. Things that...Hell have been all through this place. I'd like some things that weren't chosen to keep them quiet.'

The touch turned into a caress. 'That's...I didn't realise that.'

He cut Aziraphale off before he could start apologising. 'There's two vines out back, on the wall. If you can figure out a way to get them detached with their roots, they can come.'

He found that he could walk down the stairs the last time and snap the doors locked behind him without looking back. No sense of relief, but no sadness either. Just a place eased out of his life. Aziraphale seemed more affected by it; he'd always been more likely to get attached to places.

The Bentley knew better than to complain about carrying loads that weren't quite in the same dimension, and the journey was quicker than it had any right to be. He looked across at Aziraphale, got a grin in reply. 'This is somewhat safer than you driving at 90 miles an hour.'

'You said no miracles while we're driving.'

'You're driving. I can use miracles if I want. Mind that peacock!'

Crowley thought the offending bird up onto the verge, and let his hand rest on Aziraphale's thigh for a moment. A grounding touch. 'I didn't think...'

'We'd get this far? Nor did I.' Aziraphale covered his hand with his own. 'I didn't hope we could ever...well, live together.'

'I did,' he confessed after a minute. 'I wanted us to since, you stayed with me in Athens once and I wanted then -'

'Then? Crowley, that was three thousand years ago!'

'I know. You were right about the going too fast thing. 'M sorry.'

'Don't be daft,' and Aziraphale laughed. 'You'll be begging me to get out and give you space and quiet soon enough.'

He looked away from the road for a second, looked at his partner. 'Don't, Aziraphale. Please.'

'Sorry,' came as an instant reply, and they switched to talking about the garden for the rest of the trip.

A fortnight later, the contrast between Crowley's flat and what had become Crowley's room in the cottage was so noticeable that Crowley still found himself pausing whenever he got to the door. Aziraphale seemed to notice it as well; his eyes always landed on something new whenever he came in, and he was quick to ask questions.

'Where did that come from?' was something Crowley never got tired of hearing, a lead in to long conversations that always seemed to start off 'do you remember that time when...?' They talked in bed, or with Crowley sprawled across the sofa with some part of himself across Aziraphale's lap, or as they sat in the scarcely begun garden.

It took Aziraphale pointing it out, some six months later, before he realised he'd actually made a home for himself there, alongside his angel.


	3. Unexpected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley counted everything. It was sixteen steps around the circle when he first arrived. It was twenty one last time he'd managed it; uncountable now. He can't stand.
> 
> Crowley gets caught in a summoning circle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW Warnings for non specified mentions of blood, injury and loss of consciousness in this one; Crowley is trapped in the summoning circle and is gradually losing it so it's not a comfortable read. 
> 
> Also a couple of swear words.
> 
> General crimes against the English language, it's a weird style.

Circle. Blood. Stone.

Circle. Blood. Stone.

Circle. Blood. Is that someone coming?

Crowley raises his head, blinks and sighs. Falls back on the stone.

Of course it isn't. Hasn't been anyone here since whenever. The fucking silence. He's been making his heart beat just to have something to listen to that isn't the broken swishing of his body moving around on the stone, trying to get comfortable.

Circle. Blood. Stone.

Nothing's changed, then. There's something in the circle that makes it hard to see outside; a jumble of hazy colours that offend both human and snake eyes. A madness colour that he can't name. Or maybe it's from being awake for so long.

He should have started counting.

He's counted everything. It was sixteen steps around the circle when he first arrived. It was twenty one last time he'd managed it; uncountable now. He can't stand.

He'd known the last time he went down he wasn't getting up again. Managed to get himself in the centre of it all, no way for his long limbs to trail against it. The chalk claws.

Thing is with being in the centre of a circle, you've always got your back to it. He can feel it, reaching. Rending. Crowley also knows chalk can't do that, but it doesn't stop it happening.

Stone underneath him. It's turning to softness under his fingers.

He's worn his throat out screaming. That's sharp, an internal jaggedness that matches the rough thatch he's twisted his hair into, and forces him to keep the silence now.

Maybe that's what was wanted? Maybe they've finally had enough of him asking questions and they've decided just to put him somewhere that no-one will ever have to listen again. He'd had some coherent thoughts the first few days, but they've eased away, bled away and he can't remember what ideas he'd had.

Doesn't matter.

Some things are still the same. There's a circle. There's blood. There's silence.

Crowley lets go of the world again.

Comes back to it.

Silence fractures.

Shrapnel fragments of noise. He ducks.

Colours twist.

Something. Someone? He can't see for flames. He can't Fall; there's too much stone in the way.

The chalk claws recede; a sheathing. Silk against steel; except the noise is fire, not steel.

Smoke.

Honey and roses and wine and rain on a sunny day and old books and apples in a barn and chestnuts roasting over an open drum, but it's smoke. Smoke that's waving around, a torch or brand, a summoning.

For him? It's all things he loves.

It'd work if he could move.

The circle is gone.

The blood stays.

The angel stays.

The stone stays.

The angel?

Oh trust him to be a stubborn hallucination. He looks absolutely furious, kneeling down at Crowley's side.

'Not allowed to be angry at me when 'm dying, angel.' The words are meaningless; he's too tired to manage them. Still, he's Crowley's hallucination; he can damn well read Crowley's mind and smile at him.

'Crowley.'

Stone changes. Soft, wrapping around him; holding him without restraint. Some of it looks like Aziraphale, holding his hand. He's propped against it; cradled in it.

'Crowley.'

Blood goes in a blink, except that he can't get his eyes open again. But the slaughterhouse battlefield charnel house scent goes; not obscured by the summoning smoke but gone.

'Crowley.'

Names have power in the speaking. A summons can be one of love as well as one of coercion.

'Crowley, you will listen to me. Stand up.'

He's hauled to his feet; not standing. Held and posed, displayed; as captive in Aziraphale's arms as he's been in the circle for so long. Metal is forced into his hands; star heart cold, ice hot and old, old, old. It burns.

'Hold that. I've got you.'

Hands burn on him, arms burn around him. An embrace that's a step away from a dance, a slip of the hands away from a choke hold. Is that truth or treachery he's speaking; is 'I've got you' saving or damnation? He doesn't know.

'Crowley, I've got you.'

A building burns; he sees it from the outside then. A castle or a barn or something. Funny what humans can turn to Hell.

Aziraphale has walked into Hell and burnt it down behind him, and carried him out under a star scattered sky. The wind is howling and he's forgotten how to hear. How to sort it into things that matter.

'You're safe, Crowley.' That matters.

Crowley lets go of the world again.

Finds it again.

A blanket. A hand. A voice.

'I've got you, Crowley. It's alright now.'

The world reforms, a nebula pulling together to birth a star, a collision of light merging into a tall stand of trees and a worried angel peering down at him. A blue sky above. Blue eyes and blue sky and Crowley reaches upwards, he doesn't know if he's reaching for the sky or the Heaven that's hunched over him but he needs to touch, needs to know, and Aziraphale catches him. Pulls him close.

Chest to chest. Hands on his back. Breath on his skin.

'Aziraphale.'

'Yes. And, dearest, I would be very cross with if you died.'

'How?'

'You missed our theatre visit. I thought that was rather unexpected, so I came looking for you. I found you.'

Crowley sags in his arms. Finds Aziraphale's shoulder and leans on it. 'You found me.'

It wasn't unexpected, Crowley tries to explain later that night, as Aziraphale fusses over him in their room in an inn. Heals him, slowly and gently. Explains that it's been three months. That he's scoured half of Europe tracking him down. That no-one had been in or near that barn for almost as long; that they'd probably just been going to leave him there. That it's alright, he can go to sleep as soon as he wants, Aziraphale will stand guard. That he'll find some hot water in the morning so Crowley can wash, and yes, of course the fire will burn fiercely all night and there's an extra blanket and that Crowley will be safe.

'You saved me,' Crowley mutters eventually, when he's found himself again. It's the most expected thing in his life.

Bed. Fire. A kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line about 'truth or treachery...saving or damnation' is a slight tweaking of a poem by Stephen Donaldson in The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant, one of my top 5 novels. His poems rattle through my mind a lot. 
> 
> The weird colours that make Crowley's eyes hurt is an idea filched from Lovecraft's 'The Colour out of Space.' That one drove you mad. 
> 
> Am I going slightly stir crazy in lockdown and projecting onto Crowley? Probably, yes. I hope you guys and your loved ones are all safe.


	4. Force

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May the 4th - a little dialogue drabble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have got another fill half written for this, it was one I started a while back and it's long (4,000 and probably only half done) and horrible. The world seems horrible enough today without adding to it, so it'll get posted as a separate fic at some stage. 
> 
> Instead, Star Wars and an unnecessary Doctor Who reference.

'Crowley, no. That's what, nine films? Entirely too long.'

'You're forgetting I can literally stop time.'

'That's...no. You can't go around stopping time for any silly thing you want. It's...it's against the laws of time, I'm sure. No.'

'Didn't see you complaining the other night, when-'

'Don't bring that into it! You and that ridiculous shirt, what did you think was going to happen?'

'Not that! Otherwise we wouldn't have been out in public, and frankly I would have got my head down beforehand. '

'Crowley!'

'Sleep, angel. It means sleep. Now, can we watch the films in peace, please?'


	5. Miscommunication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale doesn't mean it like that. No-one has ever been glad to see a demon, to call them their best friend, that was Crowley's line. He knows he is the lover, not beloved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's self doubt issues crop up again, but nothing too strong.

Crowley has never been good with words; with languages; with deeper meanings and hidden currents in things that are said. He lets his hands speak for him; finds answers in the deep peace of things that cannot speak back to him but nevertheless bend to what he wants them to become. 

(He tries a thousand arts over the centuries. Lets creation stand in for speech.)

It is Aziraphale who talks, who finds the words. 

Crowley who finds himself in country after country where he can't talk to the humans bu they can see his eyes and their reactions don't need verbalising. 

Crowley who stutters his way through conversations and gets lost in the complexities of something his body was never meant to do. 

Crowley who once, one brave day, stole the words of someone they both knew and wrote them on a Valentine's card and sent it to the bookshop. 

Aziraphale knows words. He proves it to Crowley a thousand times over; he sticks with one art and makes it his own. And while he can use it to wound, and as a weapon ('I don't even like you.' 'I'll never speak to you again.') Crowley marvels at it. Something he'll never be able to do; to have the exact words to communicate what he wants or needs. 

And then Aziraphale says 'I love you.'

It's the end of a night they've spent together; a lunch that turned into dinner that turned into a room at the Ritz, a night where Aziraphale had said a lot of things and asked for a lot more, but at least they'd been immediate things, offered with joy and certainty. 

Now, he twists in Aziraphale's arms and tries to pretend he hasn't heard his lover? Yes, lover -Say that. The sunlight is pouring in through cream curtains. It's well past dawn and the world hasn't ended and an angel loves a demon.

It's too much. 

Too vast and too broad a term. 

(He doesn't mean it like that. No-one has ever loved a demon like that.)

(He doesn't mean it like that. No-one has ever been glad to see a demon, to call them their best friend, that was Crowley's line. He knows he is the lover, not beloved.)

He yanks in a breath, wishing the air was cold enough to shock him into thinking. Cold enough to stop him feeling. Instead, the whole room is sweat and sex warm. 'You can't say that.'

Aziraphale turns and looks at him; Crowley turns away and the angel lets him. 

He wants his sunglasses. 

'Why can't I?'

'Because...' he stares at the wall. Feeling every part the failure he is; the vast differences between him and Aziraphale. This is just another one of them. 'I don't know what you mean.'

A hand wraps around his shoulder, caresses down over his collarbone. The sharp, jagged edges of him. 'Dearest, that's exactly what I mean. I love you.'

'How? Like what?' 

He's seen all the ways humans love: the profound and the glancing and the twisted. He's fumbled his way through languages where they have different forms and different words; where even someone like him could tell what Aziraphale meant. Where it would be easy. 

Aziraphale strokes down his hair, edges a finger down the blade of his cheekbone. Skirts around where the glasses would be. 'In any way you'd have me, Crowley. As a lover, a partner...a...a...However you want us to be.'

'It's such a stupid word,' Crowley blurts out. 'It means too many things.'

'We don't have to use it, if it makes you uncomfortable.'

He manages to turn to face Aziraphale again. 'I love you, though. I don't want not to say it...just...' He isn't sure what he does mean. ''M not good with words like you are.'

Aziraphale gathers him close. 'In that case, dearest, I can show you. Will you let me show you?'

He does. 

Three years later, they find a word that works. It's 'Husband.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading my complaint about the English language not having proper words for different types of love. It's a great oversight.


	6. AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You ever wondered what we'd be like, what we'd do if we were human?' Crowley and Aziraphale have a drunken conversation about different paths. A love letter to some of my favourite AUs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One - I'm sorry these fills are out of order with the challenge prompts already. My planning skills are negative numbers. 
> 
> Two - Huge thank yous to the authors who've kindly allowed me to use their fics as part of this one, or have indicated on their profiles that they're happy for their work to be used in a transformative way. These are fics I love, or that speak to me deeply or ones that made me smile on a bad day, chosen simply because they've lodged in my mind ever since I read them. They're all on or were on AO3, and you can play 'name that fic' as you read if you like. 
> 
> Three - Implied sex and canon typical drunken rambling in this one.

The sunlight, filtered through the apple tree branches, crystallises across the pair of them. Crowley stretches, arms above his head, knees Aziraphale in the side. 'You awake there, angel?'

'I am now.' Aziraphale sits up. 'Fiend.'

Crowley leans against him, reaches over for another bottle of cider that's staying far colder than it ought to in the July sunshine. 'Wondered if you wanted to go for dinner somewhere, or just stay here?'

Aziraphale looks across at him. There's fresh cut grass in his hair, which Crowley has no intention of pointing out. 'Seems too nice an evening to move, doesn't it?'

'Mmm.' He's almost relived Aziraphale doesn't want to move; he's sun drunk, and half way to properly drunk and sleepy, utterly content. The garden still looks a mess, it's nothing he can be proud of yet, but it's his, and you can hear the seas whispering to itself when the wind's in the right direction - which it is right now - and Aziraphale has slipped an arm around his shoulders and Crowley's so happy he doesn't think he can express it. 

'You're smiling, dearest.'

He takes another mouthful of cider. Apples, again; always comes back to apples, doesn't it? Pulls Aziraphale across for a kiss.

A long while later, the clouds are edged with pink and gold. Aziraphale's head is resting on his chest, and he's nearly asleep again. Crowley's been thinking. 

'You ever wonder about how different things could have been?'

One blue eye half opens. 'How? What, if Adam...if we didn't...'

He feels the tension jolt through Aziraphale's body; hurries to correct what he'd said. 'Not like that, no. I dunno...all the humans. You ever wondered what we'd be like, what we'd do if we were human?'

'Own a book shop,' Aziraphale replies instantly. Grinning. 

'You'd have bills to pay. You'd have to sell books if you were.'

Aziraphale shudders in what's probably only half mock outrage. 'I would do no such thing.'

'You'd be a skint human, then. C'mon, angel, what do you think we'd be like?'

'What's brought this on?' Aziraphale twists round so they're facing together. 'You're not bored with this, are you?'

'I could never. No...you know the Them were round here the other day? They were asking about careers and stuff, I don't know. Pepper wants to be everything. Just made me think...'

There's a long silence and he can see Aziraphale thinking. 'You could be a mechanic. You like cars.'

Crowley laughs. 'I don't know anything about them, though. Just use miracles to make them go.'

'You'd learn. You're good at making things, fixing things.'

He squirms but accepts it, because it's true. He's repaired half the things around the cottage already, using his hands. 

'Besides, you'd look good in overalls with your hair tied up,' and Aziraphale flashes his patented 'complete bastard' grin. 'We could probably work on that one as we are.'

It's a while before Crowley can get his voice under control again, and longer before he can try and deflect the conversation. 'Always thought you could be an actor.'

'Why?'

'Oh come on, you've mauled the actors in every play I've ever seen with you. You must have some ideas about it.'

'That's being a critic, dearest. Doesn't mean that I can do it.'

'Nah. You played all of Hell off, course you could be an actor.'

'You did the same, remember?'

Crowley finds his hand, links their fingers together. 'Fine, we could both be actors then. You could be the hero and I could be the mysterious stranger who you eventually fall in love with. Maybe they'd even give you a sword.'

There's something about that makes Aziraphale smile, and Crowley loves that he can bring that look to his face. 

'So you'd be my lover in the script, right?'

He isn't quite sure how to phrase it so that it doesn't sound like he's making a joke of it. 'I'd be your lover, anyway. Not just in the scripts. Whatever...this is just me messing around, angel. I'd love you however we were, I know it.'

Aziraphale looks away a fraction, abashed as he always gets when Crowley proclaims something like that. 

'Even if...if you were a polar bear and I was a penguin or something, I'd love you. You know that right?'

'I...don't they live on different continents?'

'Not if they live in zoos! That's my point, angel. I'd always find you.'

'You ridiculous serpent,' and there's a choked edge to Aziraphale's voice. 'Come here,' and Crowley finds himself pulled in for another kiss. 

Aziraphale drifts back to the subject once they're in bed. 'I dreamt sometimes...you and me, that we were different.'

'Oh?' That does interest him; Aziraphale so rarely sleeps that he hardly dreams. Or if he does, he doesn't share them with Crowley. He's been privy to a few nightmares though. 

'Yes. There was one where I was a Lord of some kind and you...you were laying my clothes out before a grand ball.'

'Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you?' Crowley snorts his amusement against Aziraphale's bare chest. 'All yes sir, this, and my Lord that. Or, no don't tell me, you didn't even notice me because the clothes were all lace and frills and those ridiculous ruffles that you like.'

Aziraphale flicks a finger against his arm, also laughing. 'I don't think I could have missed you for the world. But you were doing a very good job with my clothes. The other one...' He pauses. 

'The other one, wasn't so good. We were living, you and me, in this strange city with a tower. You lived with your family and I - I was alone. I sold books at a stall. You were a tanner.' 

There's a strange tone in his voice that Crowley doesn't like. 'I don't need to hear the rest of it, if you don't want.'

'We loved each other,' Aziraphale says softly. 

'I told you. We'd always love each other. Even if we were dinosaurs.'

That does the trick; the atmosphere changes immediately. 

'Dinosaurs? You know they're not real, right?'

'Yes, but they might have been. I mean, if She had created them, She might have made us have dinosaur corporations instead of human ones or something. '

There's the long patient silence that he knows is Aziraphale trying to manage to look annoyed and failing. 'You would have been a velociraptor, then.'

'H-how do you know about them?'

'Honestly, Crowley. The humans wrote a book about them. It was called Jurassic Park. I thought it was very good. And you remind me of one, always running around.'

Crowley shakes his head, laughing. 'You're impossible, angel. All the films you don't know, and you've read the book. Shoulda guessed. So you'd have to be a big meat eating one so you could protect me.'

'Of course.' 

Crowley loves him so much. 

***

They drift into a role that neither of them had imagined, although they're nowhere near human. They become teachers, of a kind. Crowley starts it, sitting Wensley down to explain some physics questions one evening when he was fretting about homework. Aziraphale picks it up, explaining to Pepper some of the meaning behind Shakespeare's Sonnets. It suits them both. 

They love each other just the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In no particular order, here are the fics I took inspiration from:
> 
> Car Trouble - Crowley the mechanic - by Summerofspock. It's so hot! And beautifully written  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/22193215/chapters/52985554
> 
> Polar Opposites - Polar Bear and Penguin - Also by SummerofSpock It's so cute and I love the idea of them being animals that shouldn't even meet but love each other  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/23129164/chapters/55345507
> 
> Slow Show - Actors - Mia Ugly - Because you don't need your heart, right? This is the most breathtakingly gorgeous story  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/20395261/chapters/48375457
> 
> The Waiting Game - Dinosaurs - Entanglednow - It's tagged 'friends for 4 billion years and that's just perfect, and also they're dinosaurs   
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/23801797
> 
> Spiral - Teachers - The Moonmoth - This is a tiny ficlet. It reminds me of someone I loved. A very personal favourite.   
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/20656226/chapters/52001263
> 
> A title I can't remember, and The City - Lord and servant, and the strange dream. Both by the wonderful Drawlight, the first author I read in this fandom. The City is probably the best GO fic I've ever read. I wish I could link you to them. 
> 
> Thank you, GO fandom, you're awesome.


	7. Miracle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Crowley.' Aziraphale cuts across him. 'I asked if you wanted to come out tonight and you said no. That is fine, my dear.' 
> 
> 'But you want to.' 
> 
> Hell destroyed everything Crowley knew about setting boundaries. Aziraphale tries to help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, they're all out of order and late. 
> 
> This chapter is explicitly about setting boundaries - sex is mentioned briefly. Crowley is really struggling with his feelings and self worth in this.

'No,' Crowley says and almost immediately looks down. One hand goes up to his face, fingers tugging at his hair.

'It's fine, we don't-'

'I mean, it's fine, of course if you want to we'll go, I didn't mean-'

'Crowley.' Aziraphale cuts across him. 'I asked if you wanted to come out tonight and you said no. That is fine, my dear.'

'But you want to.' Crowley's turned away now, his whole body angled and legs tensed as though he's about to get up and leave. A few months ago, he probably would have - although a few months ago, he might not have said that at all. 

'It'll be fine, angel. I can put another coat on, it's not that cold. I'll wear that ridiculous scarf you brought me even.'

'You don't have to.' He's learnt, over millennia, not to look at Crowley when he's like this. He can, with a certain smile or look, get the demon to do almost anything and it's a power he doesn't like to use. Instead, he lays his hand over Crowley's and squeezes. Softly. I'm here still, it says.

It's a long while before Crowley squeezes back. 

Another long while before he decides that this is a conversation they need to have, again, today. 

It takes an age to find the words. 

'You don't need to keep doing things for me, dearest.'

'Like doing things for you,' comes the muttered response. 

'I know you do. And it's fine, all the things you've done for me. All the dinners and things. I just...Crowley, I don't want you making yourself unhappy because you think it doesn't matter. It does.'

Crowley sighs. His shoulders drop and he leans his chin on his hands. 'It doesn't matter. Please stop saying that. You're the...I want to make you happy.'

'You do! You've made me happy since Eden. Every time I was in some stupid town in the middle of nowhere with no books and I saw you walking down the street, you made me happy. Always.'

'Flatterer.'

'Crowley, this is important. If we're doing this -' he waves a hand around Crowley's flat, mostly in the direction of the bedroom - 'I want do things that we both want to do. Not for you to do things that you think you have to.'

This time, Crowley does shoot a glance at him. He looks ashamed. Sad. 

'I've told you what I like in bed, angel.'

'And you're allowed to have preferences about what we do that aren't just related to me fucking you!'

The crudeness shocks Crowley; he goes quiet and then smiles. ''M working on it, angel.'

'I know.' He does know that; he knows a little, learns a little more every day about Crowley's 6,000 years of obedience. Of trying to please everyone enough that they'd leave him mostly alone on Earth. 'I know you are.'

He moves a bit closer to Crowley; relaxes when the demon moves closer to him. Leans against him eventually. 

'I don't feel like going out tonight. Can we...stay here? Something quiet?'

'Watch a film? Takeaway?'

'I'd like that.'

Aziraphale thinks, looking at his lover, that that simple request was a miracle all of its own.


	8. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'I sold one of your books, angel.' The bookshop is always a haven to those who need it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter talks about death (no named characters die)

Aziraphale's surprised to see the closed sign up on the shop. Crowley's taken to having the shop open when Aziraphale isn't around, mostly so he can enjoy ignoring the would be customers trying to get in, but also because he's fairly sure it breaks trading standards laws. Still, he's always telling Crowley to treat the shop like home and if that means closing and going off somewhere, that's fine. 

Just...unexpected. 

He shifts the cardboard box of books and suggests they'd better not fall out in the road, and keeps walking. The lights are still on in the shop bit. That's odd. 

Oh. 

Crowley's ward prickles against his skin. A faint reminder that he had business elsewhere, that he didn't want to go anywhere near the shop. That he ought to be turning around now, going somewhere else, somewhere away. No wonder he hasn't seen anyone else on this bit of the street. 

Is it meant to be defensive? Crowley trying to protect people?

A quick miracle. Something like reaching out to prod at the ward, much like he might reach out and touch something, stroke Crowley's hair off of his face. 

The anger is a snake's strike, open mouthed, sharp toothed. It rocks Aziraphale, leaves him gasping for air he doesn't need. 

Warily, he walks up to the door. There's no fear or pain in what Crowley's done, just hurt and anger. Trying to make a barrier around himself; he pulls out the mobile the demon had got for him last Christmas and checks their last messages, not even an hour ago. 

"Just leaving now dear."

"Dinner tonight? My treat. Did you get that Dickens you were after?"

"I did. Yes to dinner. Love you." 

And a smiling snake photo that Crowley sends whenever he wants to say 'I love you' but doesn't feel comfortable writing it out. 

No, there's no way it's aimed at him; that was old doubts, old thoughts speaking. There's something wrong, but it's not him. 

Aziraphale lets himself in. Crowley's never put up a ward that would affect him and the old walls and door know him too well to even think about it. 

'Crow-Oh.'

Crowley's standing in one of the central aisles, mostly a silhouette - a tall gangly figure, hair trailing around his shoulders now, the ring on his finger flashing argent even in the dull light - facing someone who's leaning against the shelf. Aziraphale can't see anything of them except they're a lot shorter than Crowley.   
There's been a lot of times through the centuries when they can't talk, and they worked out non verbal signs a long while ago. Crowley's hand moves slightly in the signal that means 'Go away.'

He does, gathering the box up and going to the back room, giving them as much space as he can. Inside the ward, inside the ring of Crowley's furious command, he can feel a lot more now. Grief and loss and a ferocious pride; a gentleness. That last one at least, he doesn't need to interpret. 

It's Crowley, trying to help. 

There's a low hum of conversation that carries on for a long while, and most of it isn't Crowley. It sounds like someone who needed someone to listen. Aziraphale makes as much noise as he can unpacking his books and starting to sort them, not wanting to intrude. After a while, he makes himself tea and settles down to read. 

It's another hour or so before he feels the atmosphere in the shop change suddenly. It's not quite an angelic blessing but it's not far off of it, and he realises all over again how well Crowley can do his job, how he managed everything that was part of their Arrangement. 

The shop door closes gently. 

There's the dull thud of Crowley pacing in the main part of the shop for a while, restless. Aziraphale knows better than to go to him.

It's another long while before Crowley opens the door and walks over to stand in front of Aziraphale, head hanging. He looks drained. His sunglasses are held tightly in one hand, as though he's fighting the urge to put them back on. 

'Sold one of your books, angel. Sorry.'

'That's fine, dear.' 

'I gave it away actually.' Crowley sighs deeply. 

'I'm sure you did the right thing. Drink?'

'Nah. Coffee?' 

Aziraphale makes it by hand, aware that moving around gives Crowley a chance to decide what he's comfortable with. As it turns out, the demon shadows him, standing almost close to enough to touch and following him as he moves around the kitchen. 

It's enough of a request that Aziraphale puts a hand on his husband's shoulder; feels the shudder run through Crowley's body. Feels Crowley step up against him and push his face against Aziraphale's neck. He thinks about wrapping them both in his wings, but Crowley tends to fight against being protected like that. 

'Dearest?'

There's a head shake. Crowley's hair brushes against his lips, so he kisses his head and holds him. Doesn't ask him to talk.   
'Bloody coffee'll be stale an' cold,' Crowley mutters eventually. 

'Not if it knows what's good for it.'

'It's not a plant, angel. You can't threaten it into good behaviour.'

They end up on the couch again, tangled together, Crowley holding his mug as though it's the only warm thing he'll ever have. 

'Kid came in looking for a poetry book,' he says abruptly. 'She wanted...needed to have a copy to read it at a funeral.'

Aziraphale nods and lets him talk. 

'Someone died. He wasn't her Dad, he was her friend though. Sounds like her Dad was shit. He wasn't. She wanted a poem to read.'

Crowley does put his sunglasses back on then, gulps at the coffee. 

His hair is so soft and fine under Aziraphale's hand. He leans into the pressure. 

'Someone told her that she didn't ought to be so upset, wasn't like it was her real family.'

'Oh, Crowley.' He understands the anger of it all now. 'I'm sure you made her feel better.'

There's a hissing noise, barely concealed disdain. 'Humans are pretty shit at times, aren't they? Makes you wonder why we bothered to save them.'

'For people like him, I guess. And her.'

There's a long silence. Crowley takes his glasses off and turns to Aziraphale, lets him see the rawness of his expression. 'He did sound pretty good, yeah. Sorry. Dunno why it got to me.'

Aziraphale does, and he doesn't mention it. Doesn't mention all the centuries, millennia, eons where Crowley had no family at all; doesn't mention Warlock. Just settles for 'it's fine, dearest. Would you still like to do dinner?'

'Bit later on?'

'Of course.' 

Much later that night, Crowley recites the poem to him:

"Death is passing on -  
the making way of life and time for life.   
Hate dying and killing, not death.  
Be still, heart:  
Make no expostulation.   
Hold peace and grief   
and be still."

'It was from a book they both liked,' Crowley explains, as though he's still trying to justify giving it away. Aziraphale nods, suggests that they go to bed. 

He wonders, and doesn't ask, about the blessing Crowley had given her. Instead, he holds Crowley close to him and wraps them both in white feathers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem is from Lord Foul's Bane by Stephen Donaldson, and is part of a longer poem about grief and loss. I didn't read it at a funeral, but I wrote it in a book of condolences for a friend who loved those books even more than me.


	9. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley expects leaving Hell to hurt. A few vignettes on the road to healing after the world didn't end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot softer than you might expect from the subject. One bit of swearing, Aziraphale doesn't like anyone upsetting his demon.

Crowley expects it to hurt, leaving Hell. He cringes in anticipation of remembered pain, holds himself tense and on guard for as long as he physically can over the next few days. 

Aziraphale notices; must notice because he never asks Crowley to leave. Never any suggestion that he's outstayed his welcome or that it was getting late, that they ought to do something ...well separately. 

Three days in, Aziraphale suggests that they might go and check Crowley's plants. 

They. 

They do. He leaves the shop and, for the first time, isn't worried about not being allowed back in.

***

Four days in, Crowley unwinds enough that he finds himself yawning from honest tiredness rather than the sour exhaustion of an adrenaline come down, and Aziraphale notices from his spot at the desk, repairing an old Milton volume. 

'Would you like to sleep for a while, dear?'

He shakes his head, already feeling the anticipation of nightmares clawing at his brain. ''m fine, angel. I'll just... '

'Just lay down for a while, then?' Aziraphale lays the book aside. 'Here.' The couch stretches out quick enough that he finds himself unbalanced, almost prone anyway. 

'Rest for a while,' he hears Aziraphale say softly, and then there's a blanket which he doesn't remember seeing before. He does recognise the tartan; it's the same as a certain thermos flask. The fabric is soft under his clenched hands. 

There are no nightmares, and after that, he doesn't shy away from sleep any more. 

***

A week later, and they're feeding ducks in the park, and the place ought to be dark edged and sharp with unpleasant memories but all he can feel is Aziraphale alongside him. The angel's endless surety: 'We won, Crowley. Of course they're going to leave us alone now.'

He ends up sprawled on the grass, Aziraphale deigning to join him eventually and moaning about grass stains on his trousers. Throwing tiny crumbs to an equally tiny bird that kept hopping out the way of the ducks, and Crowley feels the sun beating warm on his shoulders and thinks 'We've survived it all, haven't we?'

***

'Shall we go for a drive?' Aziraphale suggests one day and he finds the Bentley no longer smells of smoke. If he stays in the driving seat for a moment after Aziraphale's got out, picnic blanket in hand, and heaves a few deep breaths just to make sure...well. He's the only one who knows. But it's fixed. Another knot in his brain relaxes.   
***

They manage to spend a few days back in his flat without talking about it. Without Crowley panicking when the TV freezes and judders for a moment, because Aziraphale is sitting alongside him, and surely nothing bad can happen then?

He hisses at the TV and it fixes itself in a flash of static. 

'Hell used to do that,' he explains.

'Fuck them,' Aziraphale says primly and they both laugh; he knows that was what the angel was going for and he's helpless to do anything else. 

'It's never going to happen again.'

'No, it isn't,' Crowley agrees and finds that he actually believes it. 

***

There's a day when Aziraphale goes out, and they're apart, and the world doesn't end. He thinks that was a fair worry, given what happened last time they were separated. 

But the angel sweeps in late that evening, hair damp, arms full of books, and nothing happens. Crowley switches the heaters on, Aziraphale takes his jacket off. 

Crowley sighs, relaxes bonelessly against the couch. Everything's alright. 

Aziraphale kisses him. 

***

It's two years later. The sky is blue and endless, arched above their cottage. Crowley is watching Aziraphale pottering in the garden. 

All he can feel is happiness, contentment. Aziraphale calls across 'I love you.' All the scars are healed up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Figured we could all use a bit of softness and healing at the moment. Hope you're all doing alright.


	10. Poetry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley really doesn't want to listen to Aziraphale reading Jabberwocky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy First Anniversary, Good Omens TV Show!
> 
> Crowley has a few self esteem issues in this one. I think I might just leave that a permanent warning, poor snake. A vaguely described sex scene.

' "Twas brilig"-'

'No.' Crowley paused a moment, and then repeated himself. 'No, angel, we're not doing that one.'

Aziraphale glanced down at him with genuine concern. The demon was sprawled across the couch, with his head in Aziraphale's lap and hair a cascade of red silk against the pale fabric of his trousers. 

'What's wrong?'

He pulled his hand away from Crowley's hair, just in case. Not that he'd ever seemed to mind the physical contact, but then Crowley so rarely complained, even if he was uncomfortable with anything. 

'Nothing. Can we...please can you read a different one?'

Aziraphale nodded. 'Some Neruda, then?'

There was a humming noise that he took as assent, and he swapped books, Crowley wriggling into a more comfortable position as he did so. 

''M fine, angel. All good.' His hand was cold against Aziraphale's, but then, it always was. 

He didn't really need the book for Neruda; he'd learnt most of his favourites by heart but it meant he could keep sneaking glances at Crowley. He'd had six thousand years of learning to tell when Crowley was lying about being alright, and tonight, he did seem to be honestly fine. 

Well, he'd always wanted Crowley to have opinions and feelings about books. Maybe it was as simple as he'd found something Crowley didn't like, and he was feeling comfortable enough now to say no. That would be a good thing. 

Aziraphale shifted their weight, Crowley pliant in his arms and turned to another poem. "Of all the stars I admired..."

'Flatterer, you are.'

'Be quiet, you fiend.' Aziraphale carried on reading, pressed a kiss against Crowley's cheek when he was finished. 

**  
They made love in the soft light of the morning, curtains open and sunshine easing through the old glass, Crowley a tangled outline of taut muscle and flame red hair against the white sheets. He could never get tired of seeing him like this. 

His voice, half cracked with want, sounded like a hymn of permission. 'Yes,' and 'yes, more,' and ''Ziraphale, please,' all easy wishes to grant. 

Later, Crowley turned in his arms to face him and the urgency was replaced by kissing and holding. Half lost in contentment, it took him a while to realise that Crowley was speaking. 

'Bout last night, I meant.'

'Sorry?'

Crowley laughed, a low sound full of affection and Aziraphale wanted to kiss him again. Badly. He did. Crowley pulled away a moment later, still laughing and sat up. Tugged a sheet around his waist. 

'As I was trying to say before you wandered off and got lost in your own head again, angel. Last night. The poem...'

'Dearest.' He traced a finger down Crowley's cheek. 'No need to explain, you don't need a reason not to like things.'

'It's not that. Didn't say I didn't like it, jusssst didn't want you reading it, it's embarrass...' He trailed off into a hiss. Lifted a hand to cover Aziraphale's, and squeezed. 

He waited in silence, moved a bit further away in case Crowley wanted space. A second later, Crowley moved closer, tangling their legs together.

'Promise you won't laugh at me?'

'Of course.'

'That'saboutmethatpoem.' 

'Sorry?' He took a moment to parse the jumbled noises, and to block out Crowley's hissing. 'Are you saying that The Jabberwock is about you?'

Crowley was picking at the sheet with his free hand, looking down at his lap. 'Yes! Alright, I might have gone a bit snakey around Oxford for a bit a while back while...'

Oh. He can feel the gap in. While we weren't talking. After I'd said such awful things to you. While you were hurt.'

He wanted to wrap Crowley in his arms, pull him close. Promise him it won't happen again. But Crowley was talking again, slightly more animated now. 

'Might have got a bit bored with just being snakey an' tried out some claws and things. And well...in the end, someone came looking for me, well it was Hastur actually, and I didn't really want to go back to Hell then so...'

He knew how the poem ended. His hand tightened convulsively around Crowley's. 'Did...did he discorporate you?'

'Nah. I bit him a few times though. Don't think he realised it was me. Anyway, he was flashing around with his sword for a bit, and I went small and managed to hide away. Couple of illusions and I let him think he'd killed something - Hastur always was thick as rocks. Just didn't realise that bloody bloke was watching.

'Always nice to find yourself immortalised in literature, anyway.' He huffed a noise that might have been a laugh and caught Aziraphale's gaze. 'I thought you'd be laughing.'

'Of course not, dearest. Why would I laugh at something that you're unhappy about?'

Crowley squirmed, looked away. 

Aziraphale held him. 

'I don't know where the eyes of flame came from. My eyes don't change.' There was a faint trace of amusement in his voice then. 

'And I certainly don't burble!'

'I'd love you even if you did,' Aziraphale told him, and Crowley smiled. ' "I'll pursue solitary pathways through thr pale twilit meadows, with only this one dream: You come too." '

'That's always what I've wanted, dearest. You with me.' He pulled Crowley back down to lie on the bed. Kissed him. 

'Even when I'm some sort of hellish monster?'

'Even then,' and he set about kissing down the sharp line of Crowley's collarbone, the hard planes of his chest. 

'Didn't even get any appearance fees,' Crowley muttered, once they'd eventually got their breath back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poems are Jabberwock, Lewis Carroll, the first line of Sonnet XLVI by Pablo Neruda and the closing lines of Pathways, by Rainer Maria Rilke.


	11. Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Are you sure?' Crowley offers, before this can go too far. Never mind that it was his idea in the first place. Failure of a demon that he is, he's never wanted to tempt Aziraphale into something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be finishing all of 30 prompts, but with a High Fantasy AU fic posting from the 16th June for the AUmens Event and a WW2 Angst fest for the Mini Bang posting from mid July, updates may be sporadic for a while!
> 
> This chapter has a paragraph discussing blood, in the form of blood pacts and sealing deals with blood, but nothing graphic and it doesn't happen in the story.

'Are you sure?' Crowley offers, before this can go too far. Never mind that it was his idea in the first place. Failure of a demon that he is, he's never wanted to tempt Aziraphale into something. 

(He's wanted to since Eden, guilt edges on gilded memories, of every day they'd spent together. Let me keep you a little longer. Let me make you smile. Would you laugh for me, Aziraphale?)

He'll never do it. 

Later, he'll think it might have sounded a bit like a proposal. A demon asking an angel to trust him, to not doubt, to do something that he could Fall for. 

'Are you sure?' he repeats. 

Aziraphale looks at him. Crowley sees a flicker of too many eyes, a trace of movement that might be wings on the threshold of this dimension. He holds still, offers the fragments and ruin of himself up for inspection. 

'Yes, Crowley, I'm sure.' 

He feels like there ought to be something else. A contract, a document. Aziraphale likes writing; perhaps a scroll with the illuminated letters that the angel loves, etched in precious inks. He could spend a century searching for some of them, an offering of star bright, flower bright colours offered up to formalise this thing between them. 

Humans use blood. Sliced hands and forearms, the blood of the covenant, the blood of the womb. He'd offer every drop of his blood if Aziraphale wanted it, everything that made him him and kept him alive. Hand over the shadows and scraps of his demonic essence. (He could take nothing from Aziraphale in return. Would never ask him to bleed or hurt.)

Humans use names. Change theirs and offer them in subjugation and add them together in joining. But Crowley still doesn't wear his name comfortably; he feels there is more yet to add to it, rather than parts he wishes to give away or change. 

The angel is smiling at him.

The world isn't ending. 

It's only an arrangement. A business contract. Aziraphale wants this. 

Humans have another way to seal things, he remembers. An old way, as sharp and jagged as a cliff fall or so most demons would think of it. 

'Aziraphale, do you trust me?'

There is another smile, and a light in blue eyes that looks like the first dawn in Eden all over again. 'Yes' is a benediction. 

The distance between them is two of Crowley's sauntering steps. The distance is all of Heaven and Hell and five thousand years. They meet in the middle. 

He wants to kiss Aziraphale's lips, to taste the sweetness, the grace there. To answer questions he won't admit to asking. 

Instead, he catches Aziraphale's hand in his, and raises it to his lips. Seals their Arrangement with a kiss. 

He never doubts that he did the right thing. 

***

A thousand years later...The meaning, the importance of it all, keeps skittering away, overwhelmed by the sensation of Aziraphale's body wrapped around his. Neither of them are good at dancing, but they're managing a kind of sway in time to the music. 

There's other couples on the dance floor. There's noise and bustle all around, but he isn't really aware of it. 

Crowley rests his chin on Aziraphale's shoulder, feels soft white curls tickling across his face. His hands find the soft curves of Aziraphale's back. They stay like that until they're the last people dancing; until the lights are dim and the band are packing up. He could snap his fingers and hold the moment a while longer, but he can feel their desire to get home to loved ones. 

How can he deny them what he has already?

'Time to go, love,' Aziraphale whispers to him. 

(There are some new names he's learnt to wear lightly and with pride. That's one of them. There are others. There are some that are for public use, some that are only for the two of them in bed. 'Love' is still his favourite. He thinks it was the name he was meant to have at the Beginning.)

The hotel is settling into sleep as they head up to their room. Aziraphale smiles at everyone they pass, and there's that faint propriety edge to it that Crowley dreamt of having directed at him for centuries. They leave the curtains open, invite in the gentle welcome of the stars that lay shadows and highlights down Aziraphale's back as Crowley undresses him. 

He ducks his head to let the angel unpin his hair; it clouds down past his shoulders and Aziraphale strokes it. 

'I love you.'

'Love you too.'

'Happy thousandth anniversary, darling.'

'And you.'

It doesn't matter who speaks the words, who echoes them. It's just as true either way around. 

'I never doubted you, you know. All the time we had the Arrangement.'

'Me neither. I knew... Always loved you.'

There are no doubts, no distance between them now, kissing in the starlight.


	12. Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'I remember you from before,' Crowley blurts out. 
> 
> They met once, before the Fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some verbal bullying in this one, not between A and C. Heaven was never very nice.

'I remember you from before,' Crowley blurts out. He yanks his hand away from Aziraphale's side, lets go of him entirely before he can lead them over this cliff together. 

He knows, he knows, he'll ruin this before it's any more tangible than a dream but he's kept his secret through six thousand years and the end of the world and suddenly he's sick with it. 

Aziraphale undoes the wreckage of his bowtie and sets it neatly aside. 'Is that a problem, dearest?'

He wants to pace. Wants to stay huddled here, close to his angel and the comfort they'd found in each other's arms a few hours earlier. 

'I recognised you in Eden. That's why I came an' spoke to you, cos I remembered you from before.'

They've never done this before. Not one fragment of a discussion over it; not a drunken misstep towards it or a leading question when they've been talking about their former employers. As far as they've been concerned, they both might have been new formed in Eden. 

He catches a tiny movement from the edge of his vision; snake eyes, designed for sensing motion. Of course, they hadn't been snake eyes back then. Hadn't even been yellow, although his hair had always been flame red, destruction and ruin and the rebirth offered by the heat of a forge already woven into his being. 

Aziraphale pulls back the hand he'd extended. 

'It's alright, Crowley,' and he wants to believe it. Reacts to the words, easily led now as ever, and brushes his hand against Aziraphale's. 

Gently, the angel rests his hand atop Crowley's. The softness, the give of his flesh, cushions Crowley's heart as much as the raw bones of his star maker's hands. 

'I'm glad you did, darling. Come and speak to me, I mean.'

His thumb drags against Aziraphale's wrist. He can feel the pulse there, as strong and as useless as his own heartbeat. He's dizzy with want, with longing not to have this conversation, to just skip to the part where he can find out if Aziraphale remembers him; if the angel recalls him wearing a different name. 

'Do you - would you - want to talk about it?' Aziraphale pronounces the words so carefully that he knows the angel is quoting something he's read in a book. Aziraphale's spent sixty centuries not talking about things, and Crowley's normally agreed that that's the best course. 

Movement comes easier than words. A jerk of his head. Fingers of his free hand twisting, clutching at nothing, until Aziraphale reaches over and claims that one as well. 

'What happened? When we met?'

'You...you told me that I was clever. That I must have been clever to make something so beautiful. Gabriel...' Crowley feels his face twist, his corporation trying to express the discomfort in his mind.   
Hands wrap tighter around his. He can see the memory coming back, the way Aziraphale sits up a bit more, holds him a bit more fiercely. 

***

It had been a long day. Crowley can't remember how he'd perceived time back then, but he can remember the dragging heaviness that comes with long periods of labour, an ache across his mind and in limbs he didn't really have. Eras later, he'll come to think of it as a pleasant tiredness, the aftermath of a hard job well done and the promise of rest to come. (He'll feel it most strongly in a garden, Eden re-made by the hands of a demon and the overly fussy plans of an angel, and welcome it.)

He'd been thinking. Somewhere in the timelessness, he'd discovered he could do that if no-one else was around. Think of new ideas, new creations, things that he wouldn't be allowed to use but that were beautiful even if they only existed in his head. 

The stars had been straight above him. Hard to see - they'd needed darkness to shine in and that hadn't arrived yet - but they were there, above him, his stars, and he'd been able to feel them even as his mind wandered onto new paths. The birth pangs, their fiercest heat, had already passed but the fractured elements he'd sculpted together to make their forms were still there, not yet coalesced completely into their new astral forms. 

A phalanx of angels had marched by. 

Crowley had ignored them, trying to find that place in his mind where the new ideas could come. Letting the whiteness of their wings blend with something he'd already been thinking about; frozen ice, trailing whiteness behind it like a smudge on glass or a dream on waking, something set to move, to keep him company so that he'd be able to say 'there you are again,' whenever it came back into view.

He hadn't noticed the angel leave the phalanx, come over to stand near him. Hadn't recognised the scent of him, the feeling of rightness and coming home. (It is the only time in their existence - in all of it - that they do not recognise each other.)

'What are you doing?'

HIs voice had been curious, not judgemental, and Crowley answered it as such. 

'Thinking about making something...a bit like a star. Only it's going to stay around the Earth, not be far away. We'll be able to see it lots of times.'

'You make things, then?'

Crowley had nodded, rolled onto his back and waved at some of the nearest stars. 'Yep. Like them. I made some of them.'

They'd talked for a while. He'd heard Gabriel shouting. He'd seen the joy fading from the other angel's face, the slightly defensive way he'd pulled his wings up. 

'What do you think you're playing at, Aziraphale? Stop wasting your time on whatever you're doing and get back here.'

He'd seen Aziraphale quail. 

Seen him lean forward and say quietly 'you must be very clever to make something so beautiful,' before he'd hurried away, heard Gabriel shouting for a long, long time. 

He hadn't seen the blue eyed angel after that. Not until Eden.

**

Crowley fidgets, uneasy. ''M sorry. I guess that's why I brought it up. First thing I ever did to you was get you in trouble.'

Aziraphale squeezes his hands. 'Darling, I have always been able to get in trouble without you being anywhere near. Remember Paris?'

'I didn't mean for Gabriel to...'

'Sssh. I walked up and talked to you, didn't I? But...I never realised that was you I spoke to. Not until you said just now. Do you want me to call -'

'No. Please, Aziraphale, no. Jus' Crowley.'

'Anthony J. Crowley,' and Aziraphale leaned over, kissed the side of his face. 'Who I remember from before as well. And it wasn't your fault.'

He nods. Lets the weight of the confession go. There'll be plenty of others, he thinks; plenty of things he's done that he's not proud of, but for now, Aziraphale is pulling him close again.

'I still think, my love, that you are very clever to make such beautiful things.'


	13. Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'What do you want?' No-one's ever asked Crowley that before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley directs some pretty harsh language at himself in this one. Self hatred mixed with Hell never allowed demons to want things.

'What do you want?'

The question rocks Crowley back. He slumps against the couch and lets his head fall down. Breathes out. 

'Crowley?'

'Yeah. Yeah...' he waves a hand. 'Gimme a moment, angel.'

Aziraphale looks worried. He should never look worried, especially now but Crowley's too lost in the maelstrom of his own thoughts to do anything about it. 

Another moment, and Aziraphale's crouching alongside him, looking up at him. A very faraway part of his mind wants to make a joke about Aziraphale being on his knees. The rest is still trying to understand that question. 

'What do you want?'

It's such a simple thing. He's uttered it himself a hundred thousand times. If you know what someone wants, you know how to hurt them, how to tempt them or destroy them. He's never heard it aimed at him before. 

'What do you want?' It echoes in his head.

He wants Aziraphale to leave before he realises what a fuck up he's allied himself with. 

He wants Aziraphale to stay, to promise that he's never going to leave, that there won't ever be a day when Crowley is turned away from his door. 

He wants to be able to answer a stupid bloody question like that without feeling like he's about to throw up or die or whatever it is this corporation wants to do. 

What he gets, which is almost enough, is Aziraphale sitting alongside him. Sitting frozen still and quiet, which normally makes Crowley feel horribly self conscious but at the moment is just comforting. He sighs and leans against the angel. 

Aziraphale wraps an arm around him, brushes a kiss against his forehead. 'Sorry. That was a bit much, wasn't it?'

'Yeah.' He swallows. 'Bit much.'

They cuddle. Crowley's given up trying to find another word for it. 

Aziraphale brushes away his apologies. 

***

They circle back to the conversation a few days later, when Crowley isn't thinking. They've driven out to Wanstead to collect some old illuminated manuscripts that Aziraphale's tracked down, and while he's trying to read three of them at once in the passenger seat, Crowley's looking at the houses they're driving past. 

'Don't like that,' spills from his mouth before he thinks about it.

Aziraphale looks up, glances at the house surrounded by scaffold and nods. 'Far too cramped. We won't get one like that.'

It feels easier than he'd imagined, to state a preference. 

***  
Aziraphale doesn't ask him like that again. Of course he wouldn't; there's as much kindness to him as there is fussy bastard. Crowley isn't sure whether he ought to feel as relieved as he does. 

But a lot of their conversations swing around to 'would you like a garage or not?' 'Would you like to be near the beach or not?' 

The first few times, he's sure there's going to be a wrong answer. There's going to be something he can say, some pattern of words or sentences that is going to make Aziraphale think that this thing between them can't work after all and that he'd be better off living somewhere without Crowley underfoot. 

If there is, he doesn't find it. 

***

It's six months since Aziraphale first proposed the idea of moving in together, of leaving London, and today they're sitting in front of an electric radiator which is the only kind of fire Crowley can bring himself to be near in the shop. He's sitting on the floor, leaning against the couch, and Aziraphale's been braiding his hair for a while now, the pair of them silent and relaxed. 

'Crowley, I've been thinking.'

'Mmm?'

'You...from everything you've said, I don't think you want this new place to be anything like your flat.'

Crowley freezes. 

'Dear?'

It's easier, somehow, because Aziraphale can't see his face. Can probably sense how nervous he is, if the gentle way he's stroking his hair is any indication. 

'Yeah. You're right. Don't like the flat.'

The hands drift down onto his shoulders, rubbing softly. 'You don't have to tell me, you know.'

'It's alright. Just...Hell...sometimes they had a knack of y'know, breaking things or taking 'em away if they thought...wasn't worth having too many things they could take away. The Bentley...don't think they ever really realised it was anything more than a tool, but they...they don't like demons having homes.'

He can feel the understanding in Aziraphale's grip. No words, and he's glad for that, because he doesn't think he can handle hearing sympathy at the moment. 

It's much much later, and they're in bed when Aziraphale says softly 'it'll be different to the flat, I promise.'

***  
He keeps expecting the angel to run out of patience. To suggest that they go and start looking at properties - humans manage this bit alright, from what he understands of house buying - and it's not like he's never looked for a place to live before. It didn't ought to be such an issue. 

Aziraphale just waits. Doesn't hassle. Doesn't push. 

Doesn't run out of patience. 

Doesn't ask why when Crowley rejects the first advert they look at together out of hand.

Kisses him when, somewhere around the fourth one, he mutters something about it being dark, closed in, cramped. 'Like Hell' is what he means but doesn't say. 

Aziraphale turns down a flurry of places because they'll be too damp for the books. Crowley laughs at him, and it turns into both of them laughing, completely comfortable with each other. 

***

It's a Tuesday morning and it's raining. It's nine months later. Aziraphale is arguing with the crossword. Crowley's drinking coffee. It's easy, then, to say what he wants. 

'Angel, I'd like it if the house has a garden I could have.'


	14. Food

Crowley can cook. It's something he's picked up over the centuries; part blending in with humans, part something to keep him busy.

(A quiet fragment of him, locked away, almost forgotten, says 'Part creative.' He doesn't need that part, not any more. They burnt it out of him.)

He made bread, crouched behind dusty slabs of stone, hands used to shaping stars shaping something of Earth instead. 

He knelt in the ruins of a battlefield and scraped together a hot meal from whatever was left, feeding it to men who were scarcely alive to taste it. 

She made birthday cake for Warlock, shaking hundreds and thousands across the sticky icing and placing chocolate buttons around his candles. 

It's never been anything Crowley did for himself. 

The kitchen isn't on fire, and Aziraphale hasn't arrived yet. Therefore, it's exceeding all his expectations. He pivots, glares at the oven. It should know better than to burn anything he's cooking but of course, if it's going to ignore him, it'll be tonight. 

He risks one more glance at the sea bass and doesn't pace. Demons don't pace. He goes to check on the plants instead - and if he needs to come back for their spray can, and then back again for their feed - well. He isn't pacing. He's doing things. 

The pastry looks alright. 

The kitchen doesn't. The first time he laid the table, it looked (romantic, he whispers to himself. It had looked like he wanted it to look, a glimpse of a future he doesn't believe can exist) overly fussy and pretentious. Roses, for Someone's sake. Who, aside from his subconscious, thought it was a good idea to have roses on a dinner table?

The second time, he goes too far the other way. Spartan, almost. All bare lines and white plates and it might look like him, might suit the flat, but it's not him. (A small confession. Crowley isn't all stark outlines and harsh corners.)

Aziraphale knocks on the door before he can do anything else, and his stupid, too human, too full heart skips. Aziraphale. 

Crowley can still scent the outdoors on him; the warm September air, the softness of the starlight and streetlights, or maybe he's just imagining things now. Because Aziraphale is standing at his door, smiling hesitantly, wearing a different bowtie and under the familiar jacket that Crowley loves almost as much as the angel wearing it, a pale blue shirt. He's holding a bottle of wine. 

'Crowley. Um...You said you wanted to do something different tonight?...I brought this.'

He's taken enough bottles of wine to the bookshop over the years to know it isn't a meaningful gesture. It's just something he does. It doesn't matter. 

But Aziraphale hands the bottle of red wine over and their fingers brush and oh...It's always mattered. Everything he's offered up was part supplication, part offering, and he can see in Aziraphale's soft smile that this means the same. 

'Thank you,' and his voice wavers embarrassingly. 

'It's nothing, my dear. Now, what are doing?'

He steps back and waves Aziraphale in to the flat. 

There's a quiet moment as they stand alongside each other, and he wants to be uneasy, wants to say something but it's Aziraphale standing alongside him and he can't be truly worried now. The angel looks quizzical.

A kitchen timer chooses that moment to bleep; Crowley swears and hurries off to the kitchen with Aziraphale following him. 

He throws the samphire into a pan to start blanching and whirls to face Aziraphale. Manages eye contact for a second before it's too much and he has to look down. 

'Thought I'd make us dinner.'

'You cooked? Oh, my dear,' and Aziraphale smiles at him like...well, he'd last seen that smile across the table in the Ritz a month ago. 

Crowley doesn't have anyone to pray to, anyone who will listen, but he still asks for courage as he plates their starter up. Asks for the words to say, for a way to explain things to Aziraphale. 

He doesn't get it, but as the angel kisses him rather thoroughly later that night, he doesn't think it really mattered. 

They have the apple and blackberry pie for breakfast - a very late breakfast - the next morning.


	15. Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley struggles with self acceptance and allowing himself to be happy in this one.

'What were you dreaming about?' Aziraphale's voice is muffled by toast. 

Crowley flips onto his back and gazes at their ceiling. A fortnight into living here, and it's still unfamiliar. Aziraphale had suggested painting it with stars a few days ago, and he'd managed to fight down his enthusiasm for the idea, not wanting to push in case it was an offer made out of kindness rather than what Aziraphale wanted. 

At the moment, the bedroom is unpainted, stark. Untouched. He's spent the past week trying to find the edges of the garden, which is entirely his space. 

'I wasn't dreaming,' he lies.

He tugs part of a blanket up across his chest and arms, as though a human barrier could deflect Aziraphale's attention. 

'Mmm, sure.'

A hand traces across the sharpness of his cheek, the angularity of his jaw and he wants to yell at Aziraphale, warn the angel not to cut himself on Crowley's jagged edges. 

It is more gentle than anything born of Hellfire and damnation deserves. 

'You were smiling, darling.'

He doesn't have words to answer. Pushes his face against Aziraphale's fingers and leans into the pressure. It's grounding, steadying. 

'You're allowed to be happy about things, love. They won't take them away from us. Not now. It won't happen.'

He wonders how Aziraphale can project that air of certainty when he's wearing a hundred year old nightshirt and nibbling toast. His hair is sticking up, even. And despite all that, Crowley wants to believe him. 

'Nothing, angel. Wasss only a dream, nothing important.'

'It made you happy. Of course it's important.'

That stops the words dead, more effective at silencing him than any of Aziraphale's magic could ever be. He hauls in a deep breath and turns back onto his side. Twitches a hand in a gesture they'd worked out a long while back, before they were allowed to follow through on it, and Aziraphale understood it. 

He wraps Crowley in his arms. Tightly. They don't mention it again.

***

The months ease by. Crowley finds the edges of their garden and a fence appears around them quicker than it should have done. Aziraphale sorts and resorts the books, and Crowley's fairly sure there's been a few miracles done in the library as the shelves seem to stretch and bend just slightly out of his vision whenever he looks directly at them. ('Nonsense, Crowley, all bookshelves do that. How else would you keep space for your to read pile?') They start to decorate parts of the cottage. 

Aziraphale doesn't ask about his dreams again. 

Oh, there's plenty of times he shakes Crowley awake from a nightmare, plenty of times when his good morning greeting is a concerned kiss and the firm suggestion that he drink some water, wash away the sting of screaming from his throat, plenty of times when he'll say firmly 'that's not how it happened, Crowley' or 'that's not real.'

But he never asks about the good ones. 

***

It's a cold day. The air is thin and sharp and full of autumn. Yesterday, Crowley's hands were blood red with blackberry juice, more of it smeared across his lips like carelessly applied lipstick. He'd kissed Aziraphale until the angel could taste them too. 

Today, they're gathered in a bowl in the kitchen. There's apples too, which Aziraphale had picked from an orchard on one of their local walks, and they'd agreed that maybe they needed an apple tree in their garden. It can be a sapling; they've got time to watch it grow. There's birds chattering rudely just behind the window, and Aziraphale stalking in the kitchen as though expecting the pastry ingredients to put up a fight. 

Crowley is fiercely, painfully, happy. 

'This is what I was dreaming of,' he mutters when Aziraphale comes close enough to hear, searching for a rolling pin. 

'Sorry, dearest?'

'Top cupboard, on the left look.' 

'No, before that.'

He thinks he hadn't quite meant to be heard; he'd wanted Aziraphale to know without him having to say it so plainly. 

'This is what I was dreaming about when we first came here. Was dreaming about being happy.' 

Aziraphale kisses him, moves back to the pastry. 'It's going to stay like this. Believe me, it is.'

And somehow, Crowley does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The blackberries are mentioned because I was re-reading Seamus Heaney's 'Blackberry Picking' yesterday. A favourite poem and very apt for this time of year.


End file.
